


Sherlock's Agony

by Mrs_SimonTam_PHD



Series: Post Reichenbach Songfics [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breaking Benjamin, Dear Agony, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's angry, Song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3311048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD/pseuds/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's angry at Moriarty for tearing him and John apart. </p><p>Because he can't send a text message. </p><p>Inspiration: "Dear Agony" by Breaking Benjamin</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock's Agony

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that I used the same song twice, but I feel like this song could work for both John and Sherlock. 
> 
> And I don't think there's enough post-Reichenbach Sherlock fics.

_Dear agony_

Sherlock Holmes sat in a hotel room somewhere in Amsterdam, twiddling with his phone, seeing all the texts messages John had sent.

It’s been two years since Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s, John’s screams of “SHERLOCK” as he fell ringing in his ears.

Two years since he made the decision to fake his death and track down all the snipers that Moriarty hired so that John, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson would be safe. Moriarty was dead, so he doesn’t have to worry about that.

_Just let go of me_

John’s in bad shape, Sherlock knew. Mycroft kept him updated, saying that John had seen no less than three therapists, his limp was back, and so were the nightmares.

Sherlock understands, for once, what it’s like to have nightmares. He has them every time he sleeps.

_Suffer slowly._

Sherlock keeps up to date on that useless blog that John made, smiling to himself as he reads the stories that John is recounting, chuckling at some of them. He lights up a cigarette as he checks it today.

He’s back to smoking. He’s surprised he hasn’t gone back to the cocaine, but he promised John that he wouldn’t ever do it again.

He makes a face. His normal cigarette brand changed their production technique. Wonderful. Now’s not the time to switch brands, though, so he suffers through it.

_Is this the way it’s got to be?_

He really regrets the fact that he had to jump, had to lie to John. He leans back in his seat, trying to think of his doctor. Tawny blonde hair mussed, probably growing facial hair. Ocean blue eyes showing the depth of his sadness as he types up a tale, filling with tears as he tells of the time that Sherlock guessed his password. . . or one of the times he did, anyways. There would be a cup of tea next to him, he knows. Probably wearing that cream colored jumper that he loves so much.

_Don’t bury me._

He appeared at his own funereal, saw his own black headstone with the golden letters “SHERLOCK HOLMES” on it. He saw John collapse at the grave, crying and begging for Sherlock to come back. He wanted to rush to John, hug him, let him know that he wasn’t dead.

But he couldn’t.

He didn’t know if Moriarty had a sniper trained on John, and that was more important. John’s life was more important than sentiment.

_Faceless enemy_

He ate more often, but still avoided sleep as much as possible. The nightmares were too terrifying for him to handle. He rarely cried, even as a child, but every time he slept, he woke up with his face wet with tears.

Because his nightmares always had John dying. Sometimes in situations they’ve been in, like the darkened pool when they first met James Moriarty, which they knew as Jim from IT, Molly’s boyfriend. Other times, he missed a sniper and comes home. . . and John’s in his armchair, reading the paper, and he jumps up and limps over to Sherlock, but a sniper’s bullet throws a dying John into Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock calls 999, but it’s always too late. . . 

_I’m so sorry_

He felt so bad about lying. Lying to Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, John. Especially John. John didn’t deserve to be lied to, to be misled. He knows when he returns, he’s probably going to get punched. And Sherlock will welcome it. Because he knows he deserves it.

He hates these emotions, not understanding why they have manifested, now of all times. Or even at all. But now he realizes that he needs these emotions to help him in his mission.

To save John’s life.

_Is this the way it’s gotta be?_

He sighs as he stands up, the cigarette now dead, and he looks out the window, wanting his violin, his eyes deducing the street. His mark won’t be out tonight, but tomorrow, he will be. All that practice shooting the wall at 221B has helped him invaluably.

He looks down at his phone, at the latest attempt to get him to reply, out of hope.

_I never stopped believing in you, Sherlock. You’re my best friend. And you’re absolutely bloody brilliant. I know it’s impossible, but stop being dead, you idiotic git. –JW_

The words make him want to reply back, let him know that he really isn’t dead. . .

But he can’t.

Now he knows the true definition of being alone. He never really did, before. But since the Fall, now he does.

It’s when you can’t reach out to anyone.

_Dear agony_

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are shiny!!


End file.
